Flower, Gleam and Glow
by Lily Winterwood
Summary: For seventeen – almost eighteen – years, Sherlock Holmes has been locked up in a tower wondering why lights appear in the south on his birthday and why his hair has healing properties. John Watson helps him find the answers. Film fic with Tangled.


**Title:** Flower, Gleam and Glow  
**Characters/Pairings:** Sherlock, John, Moriarty, Sherlock/John  
**Genre:** Romance  
**Ratings/Warnings:** PG-13 for mild abuse?  
**Summary:** For seventeen – almost eighteen – years, Sherlock Holmes has been locked up in a tower and wondering why lights appear in the south on his birthday and why his hair has healing properties. John Watson helps him find the answers. Film fic with Tangled.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock or _Tangled_. I also don't own Basil of Baker Street or David Q. Dawson.

* * *

**Flower, Gleam and Glow**

The worst thing about being human is the expiration date.

Actually it's not even the expiration date itself; it's the years before when the body slowly degenerates, spoils like an overripe fruit. Many dread it, and so they blindly seek the fountain of youth.

This fear is what drives the scientists at Baskerville to conduct some special experiments regarding anti-aging and healing. They splice together the genes of various animals, all of which concern aging and the body's ability to rejuvenate, to heal – and they inject all of this into a plant. An ordinary flower.

The flower begins to bloom and grow and – because they've also added in a firefly gene to distinguish it – _glow_. It had been withered before, but now it's back to little more than a young bud, seeking to unfurl its petals for the first time. And when that happens, the scientists clap each other on the back and usher in the first client for their anti-aging treatment.

His name's James Moriarty; he's an old man with an extremely cunning and sharp mind and a gift for mathematics. In his younger years he published a book on the binomial theorem and got himself a good spot at Durham University. But now he's in his twilight years and he will do anything, _anything_ to turn back the clock.

Moriarty stops time with the plant. The scientists are dizzy with success.

They then get a phone call from a man, a rich man with connections to the government. Sherrinford Holmes begs them to bring the flower to his wife, who's going through complications with childbirth. He begs them to heal her. He offers a considerable sum of money.

They accept.

Holmes's wife gives birth to a boy, a healthy baby boy. The plant had been rendered into a serum and injected into her bloodstream; it travelled through the placenta and into the child. There, by some unknown process, it began to alter his physique.

The Holmeses take one look at their newborn son with his curly golden hair and call him Sherlock.

But their time with little Sherlock is sadly cut short one summer night, when a shadow sneaks into their manor, into the nursery. Jim Moriarty throws back his hood and takes a snippet of the baby's hair. Right before his eyes the proteins denature; the golden curls in his hand darken to black, black like the ashes of youth.

Moriarty realises he only has one course of action, and he takes the baby and steals away into the night. Come morning light, the Holmeses confront their loss – Mrs. Holmes faints, Mr. Holmes nearly faints, and Mycroft Holmes swears vengeance like a proper seven-year-old. Sherrinford Holmes never truly recovers from the loss; in two years he is dreaming beneath the flowers and his little nine-year-old son Mycroft inherits his responsibilities.

And as the years pass and Mycroft ascends to greater and greater responsibility until he nearly controls the government, his little brother Sherlock grows up isolated in a tower, the Reichenbach Tower in the centre of a forest in Staffordshire. There, he spends his nighttimes looking out at the stars and wondering why every year on his birthday, without fail, for as long as he can remember, there are bright lights in the south.

He wonders why they beckon for him to come home.

* * *

Seventeen years pass in this fashion. Seventeen times the lanterns come out but no little lost Holmes brother comes home. Seventeen times London holds its breath, only to be disappointed in the morning. There had been search parties, but somehow they all vanished without a trace.

On this day before the eighteenth lantern ceremony, at the very top room of a tall, forbidding tower, a seventeen-year-old young man flings open the window and peers through a spyglass, laughing as he scopes out the land for the ten thousandth (in his counting) time.

"I spy no enemy ships, me hearties!" he cries to his companions, a set of mice sitting on his shoulder. He's nicknamed the taller, more slender one as Basil of Baker Street and the shorter, more rotund one as Dr. David Q. Dawson; they had appeared in the tower when he was ten and haven't left his side since. He imagines that when his back is turned the two of them solve murders and run about outside the tower, out in the great beyond, but every time he asks they don't give very satisfactory responses.

Then again, they _are_ mice.

"Then again, there haven't been enemy ships for seventeen years," the young man sighs after a moment. "I'm sure there's something we can do. I'm _bored_."

The mice look at each other and scamper towards the very edge of the windowsill, pointing outwards. The young man sighs.

"I know, I know. I want to go out there, too. But it's two hundred and twenty-one metres down from here and there is no discernible exit from this tower that doesn't involve all three of us leaping to our deaths and Daddy has already thwarted our every opportunity to escape." Disappointed, the mice scamper into the young man's lap as he takes a seat on the sill and looks out. "If there's a plan, I've already considered it. Surely now that I'm grown up Daddy will let me go."

For seventeen years, Sherlock Holmes has been forbidden to cut his hair. As a result the golden curls fall down his back and extend far into the room; he's measured it almost every other week and currently it extends to about two hundred and twenty metres long. He considers measuring it again, but there are other, much better things to do with his time. Like read the ten biology and chemistry textbooks he has on his shelves and conduct more experiments with the help of his two mice friends.

Even that gets dull after a while, especially since Daddy hasn't brought in more cadavers for him to dissect and experiment on for at least a week. Sherlock flops down on the couch in his room and wishes he has something to throw at the wall. He's already spray painted every last inch of the walls in yellow and purple, scrawling the word BORED in never-ending patterns. He's already played through his collection of violin sheet music. He's already brushed every last centimetre of his long, long hair.

Sherlock returns to the window after a moment, looks out, and wonders when his life will begin.

* * *

"Sherlock, my boy, let down your hair!" a familiar voice calls. Sherlock does so accordingly, wincing in pain as the man – his Daddy Jim – clambers up the side of the tower using his hair as a climbing rope. It's excruciating and just _wrong_; Sherlock often wonders why he hasn't gone bald as a result.

Jim enters the chamber with several body bags and a basket of food; Sherlock leaps on the cadavers eagerly and opens the first, peering in with shining Glasz eyes.

"How fresh?" he asks.

"Very," replies Jim. "Natural causes, sixty-seven years old."

Sherlock wants to know everything – wants to know what bruises will form on the cadaver, wants to know the rate of saliva coagulation after death, wants to know the composition of the man's last meal in his stomach. But he doesn't; he knows he shouldn't get too eager about Daddy's presents until after their customary greeting.

So he pecks Daddy on both cheeks and lets the man take his hair in his hands, fingers running through the golden, silky material. Sherlock closes his eyes and begins to chant.

"_Flower, gleam and glow. Let your powers shine. Make the clock reverse; bring back what once was mine_."

As he chants, Sherlock reaches up and plucks out a long strand of hair. It glows even brighter – as long as there is a follicle attached he can utilise the hair's properties. The strand is warm in his hands; he only has minutes to take out the serum, insert the hair, and shake it until the serum turns from clear to bright gold. He never manages to get the entire 220 metre strand into the phial of serum, but that's irrelevant. All that matters is that the healing enzymes have been transferred into the serum, which, according to his experiments, contains a substance to loosen the golden cuticle to get at the medulla, the core that contains the fountain of youth.

Sherlock's performed many experiments in secret on his hair; he knows that Jim wouldn't allow it otherwise. He knows that his hair can do much more than restore Jim's youth, but he's never had the chance to put experiments to practice.

Sherlock dips the syringe into the phial and raises the plunger. Jim rests his arm on the table, his fingers still running through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hates that – Jim touching his hair feels unclean, a violation. He swabs at Jim's arm with an alcohol wipe, and jabs the needle into his Daddy's arm with a little more force than necessary. Jim doesn't comment, but the barest hints of a 'temper, temper!' expression flit across his features. Sherlock grimaces.

The serum works its magic. Within moments Jim's wrinkles smooth away and he is young once more.

"Now then, Sherlock, dig in!" his Daddy's expression softens somewhat, but Sherlock has never trusted the emptiness of his black eyes. He turns his attention towards the bodies, though, eyes glinting with the hopes of discovery and inquisition.

"Well, um... Daddy?" he asks after a moment. Jim walks over, puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Something wrong, sweetie?"

Sherlock hates that word and all other forms of endearment that Daddy uses, but he doesn't comment. "I… well. My birthday's tomorrow," he starts, hesitantly.

"As I've noted. Eighteen years old, Sherlock, how pleasant!"

"Yes, well… I know what I'd like for my birthday."

"What is it? You know Daddy only wants you to be happy."

Sherlock sighs and steels himself for rejection. "I want to see the lights."

A pause. "The lights?" The warmth is rapidly dwindling out of Jim's voice; Sherlock can almost see the other's expression becoming more and more twisted by the second.

"There are always lights in the south on my birthday. I should like to figure out where they come from and why they come on my birthday."

"Oh sweetie." Here comes the inevitable 'Daddy knows best' spiel, Sherlock thinks. "Sweetie, sweetie, don't you know how_ dangerous_ it is out there?"

"I can handle it. I'm not a child. I'll be turning eighteen tomorrow!"

"You're still such a sapling. The world out there is far too much for someone like you. They'll only use you, the people out there!"

Sherlock's heard it all before. His hair is special. People will use him; will use him for his powers. They're not his real friends – what's the use of having friends if all they'll do is use you?

"There are bad men out there, bad men with sharp pointy teeth! Men who kill other men to bring these cadavers that you so eagerly study. And women, too – nasty lot, all of them. Can't get your hands dirty with the real world, Sherlock. You won't be able to handle it. Trust me."

Sherlock continues to stare, to glare almost defiantly. Jim's eyes are hard, cold. Almost shiny like beetles, but still endless like cold black tunnels. Sherlock feels a shudder of fear trickle down his spine.

"Trust me," coos Jim, smiling indulgently at him. "Daddy knows best."

Soundly rejected, Sherlock's shoulders slump and he sighs melodramatically. "_Fine_."

"Excellent!" Jim's face breaks into a far warmer smile; he slips easily into the mask of kind patronage. Sherlock can see Basil and David hiding behind the books; they don't buy it any more than he does. "What else would you like for your birthday, then?"

"Another chemistry kit will be fine," Sherlock replies.

"Oh, you know it'll take weeks to be delivered."

"You could go and fetch them yourself? I won't go anywhere, I swear."

Jim scrutinises Sherlock, as if trying to catch him lying. Sherlock puts on his most earnest face – two can play at the acting game. After a while, Jim nods, and moves for the window.

"I'll be back in three days, then. Don't go running off without me!"

With that lingering in the air, Sherlock lets his Daddy down and slumps to the floor next to his bodies. Presently, he springs back up, grabs his riding crop, and drags the corpses into the kitchen.

* * *

But the next morning, Sherlock's world is turned upside-down with the arrival of a fair-haired man in an oatmeal-coloured jumper and a satchel with a medical textbook in it. Sherlock puts his observational skills to use and deduces from the contents of said satchel that the intruder is a medical student named John Watson, twenty-one years old with a taste for adventure and the wilderness but not much experience with either. He must have strayed from his campsite in the forest last night and sought refuge in Sherlock's tower. That in and of itself is an accomplishment.

After all, Jim always makes sure that if any locals make a comment about a ridiculously tall tower sticking out of the nearby forest, that person will not live to see another sunrise. It does put a bit of damper on investigations, and Sherlock always wonders how long it will take before someone finally figures out that he's here.

He's never seen another man aside from Jim, and this one is so… different. He's shorter, stockier than Jim and doesn't _look _as clever – but he's definitely intelligent, if he really is going about with a medical text in his satchel. He's not bad looking – not the textbook definition of beautiful, but definitely not bad on the eyes. Sherlock rather likes it. John Watson looks comfortable in his slouchy jumper and his peaceful smile, a contrast to Sherlock who's all darks and angles – aside from his ridiculously long golden hair he is abnormally tall, almost sickly-pale, and sports high cheekbones and strangely-coloured eyes. He's not like Moriarty or the cadavers he cuts up. He's an anomaly and he contrasts so sharply with John Watson that it's laughable.

Then John Watson wakes up and Sherlock immediately knocks him out again with a brisk but not hard tap to the pressure point below the occipital bone with his riding crop. He drags the unconscious man into the nearby wardrobe, sets up a chair, and looks over at Basil and David sitting on the table next to an Erlenmeyer flask.

Sherlock loops his hair around the door of the wardrobe, opening it and letting the med student fall out in an ungraceful heap on the floor. Riding crop raised, he inches towards the other man and drags him into the chair before tying him up with his hair and retreating into a safe distance. Basil and David scamper onto John's shoulder and wake him up.

The first thing Sherlock notices is that John's eyes are a clear dark blue. The second thing he notices is that John considers being tied up by hair something very odd. In fact, seeing a man with long hair like Sherlock's seems to be 'very odd', and Sherlock's pretty sure it's not just the hair; it's also him.

"John Watson, is it?" he asks as he strides up to the chair, towards the fair-haired med student. John's hair is almost brutally short – but then again Sherlock knows that most men keep their hair short and he's just an odd case because of his hair's properties. "Medical student at the University of London?"

"Yes – how did you – oh." John frowns. "You have my satchel, don't you?"

"Yes, and I'll be holding it hostage until you do what I ask you to do."

John's eyebrows shoot up, and then he guffaws. "Very funny, whoever you are. I'd like my book back, please."

"Sherlock," Sherlock offers quickly. "And I'm not joking. I want you to take me to see the lights."

"The lights?" echoes John, and then his eyes light up in comprehension. "Oh, right, the lights they set out every year in London."

"They'll be bringing them out tonight. I want to see them."

"You can go yourself."

Sherlock scoffs. This man is so… idiotic. "Obviously I can't, being trapped in a tower with no discernible exit route. Speaking of which, how in the world did you manage to climb up here?"

"Pocket knife and a pair of really good trainers," John replies offhandedly.

"You don't have much wilderness training, though. You don't have the right equipment or the proper calluses, and you live most of the time in a city."

"Point taken," John says, grimacing. "Look, why is seeing the lights so important to you? Surely you can ask your mum to take you?"

At that Sherlock goes quiet. Very quiet. "I… um… don't have one." He casts a sidelong glance at Basil and David; they bow their heads in sympathy.

"Oh." John's expression falls faster than an apple dropped from the window (Sherlock's timed it; it takes approximately five seconds). "Well, what about your dad?"

"He won't let me."

"Well, I'm sure he's got his reasons."

Sherlock sniffs. "He only wants to keep me here in this tower until I moulder away," he replies derisively. "It's most likely in my best interests to breathe some fresh air once in a while. To leave the tower."

"Are those really cadavers on the table?" John asks.

"You're avoiding my question."

"But answer that one, at least, so I know you're not some psycho out to get me."

"I don't kill people." Sherlock grimaces. "Daddy brings them to me and I discover. I observe."

"Wow." Sherlock's pretty sure John's not supposed to say that. But then again, John is a student who works with the same sorts of bodies in the same ways on a regular basis. Except he probably doesn't whip the bodies or use their internal organs in various experiments. Sherlock's pretty sure he only cuts them open to figure out how they work.

"Will you take me to see the lights?" he asks again, and John nods hesitantly. "Good. Daddy will be gone for about two more days; I want you to take me to London and back, and then I'll return your books to you. Do we have a deal?"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" John asks, and Sherlock laughs.

"Not at all."

* * *

When Sherlock finally descends the tower, the first thing he realises is that he should have worn shoes.

But then he feels the warm earth under his feet, feels the sunlight on his face, smells the forest and the clean, fresh air and all of that is chased away with his desire to learn and learn and learn.

He wants to know the heights of the trees, the textures of their bark. He wants to feel the cool of the stream, the softness of the grass and the moss and every leaf on every tree. That, of course, is unthinkable with their timeframe. They have to find the nearest trail out of the forest, all the way to the nearest transit station and from there they'll take buses and trains all the way to London.

But as soon as they leave the hollow where the tower hides, Sherlock flops onto the ground in dejection and moans that he cannot do it, that Daddy will kill him – and Daddy probably will; Sherlock's suspected for years that Jim has had some hand in the fate of the cadavers he brings to Sherlock – and that they should go back. But as soon as those thoughts cross his mind he cancels them out with the overwhelming desire to touch and sense and discover.

He's like a newborn animal, moving about curiously, darting to and fro around John who merely holds the steady course. They discover the footpath; John adheres to it while Sherlock runs off the path every now and then and happily stops to feel the gravel beneath his feet. It's all so new and exciting and the scenery around them takes his breath away.

Basil and David come along, riding in John's satchel by Sherlock's side. He's wearing his favourite coat; he's got a scarf around his neck and gloves in his pocket and he has never felt so happy to be alive and so utterly not-bored.

* * *

Sherlock isn't sure that they're being tailed until he notices the tall fair-haired man with the bushy moustache and the cigarette and how he's been following them ever since they entered the nearby town.

John has enough cash on him for transportation, but he makes a detour to a nearby cashpoint machine to withdraw more, to get Sherlock a pair of shoes. Sherlock's never seen the need to wear shoes, but now after hours of walking and tiptoeing on scalding asphalt he knows why most people do. He's grateful for John's kindness, but he doesn't show it as well as he should. He merely mutters a 'thanks' and resumes looking about him at the town. Everything is foreign, from the food to the people to the numerous cars and buses – and the buildings! They stretch on and on, towards the sky. John says the ones in London are taller.

People look at him oddly for his hair and after a couple of close scrapes by passing buses and cabs Sherlock decides to tie it all up in one long plait. He still gets odd looks, but it doesn't take long for him to shrug them off. John drags him onto the bus, and then Sherlock sees the man with the cigarette.

The man follows them off the bus when they stop in Chesterfield, and continues to follow them as they navigate through the streets of Chesterfield all the way to the train station. Sherlock feels a cold gnawing of apprehension in his stomach; he's sure the man is connected somehow to Jim. He's not sure how to prove it.

The man doesn't follow them out of Chesterfield, and Sherlock relaxes only slightly as the train – he's only read about them once or twice – leaves the station for London. His heart beats quickly in anticipation and nervousness, and somehow John smiling reassuringly at him does nothing to quell his heart rate.

"You all right?" the other man asks, and Sherlock laughs harshly.

"Fine," he says, shifting in his seat and looking out the window. He tries out his deduction skills on everyone around him, but he doesn't have the guts to confirm them. Not yet, at least.

"Good." John's eyes crinkle into a smile. It's a very nice smile, Sherlock thinks, and he wonders if he can feel every muscle used and feel the texture of John's skin.

"Tell me more," he says suddenly, feeling slightly awkward. "About yourself, or where we're going, or why they release the lights every year on my birthday –"

"Your birthday?" echoes John. "Today's your birthday?"

"Obviously; why else would I be so curious about lights that appear on my birthday?"

"Wow, happy birthday. I should treat you to something in London –"

"You're taking me to see the lights; I don't think –"

"No, I insist. Look at you, locked up in a tower like some fairytale princess. You need to have a proper birthday."

Sherlock's eyes crinkle, too; he smiles brightly at John and it's the most genuine one he's ever given in his life. "All right," he agrees. "Now tell me more."

"Well, the lanterns are sent out like some sort of beacon every year," John begins, "because it's the birthday of the lost Holmes brother. See, he was kidnapped before his first birthday by some unknown man and in order to guide him home his father appealed to the Queen to start this lantern tradition – she's always had a soft spot for lost ones, and she'd always wanted an excuse to set off those lanterns, or so the papers say – and so from the first birthday onwards everyone in London sends out floating lanterns."

"Does the boy's father still live?" Sherlock asks curiously.

"I don't think so," John replies. "I think he died soon after, actually. Poor sod."

"Yeah." Sherlock looks down at his hands. "Poor sod."

He wonders and wonders – what if _he_ was the lost Holmes brother? He'd have to ascertain, with family pictures or something, but a jolt of apprehension runs down his spine at the thought. He shouldn't jump to conclusions, he really shouldn't – what if all of that was in vain and he _wasn't_ the brother?

Or even worse, what if he _was_ and he decided he'd never go home to Daddy ever again? Sherlock may not like his Daddy – personally he thought Jim gave him the creeps – but Daddy was all he'd known for seventeen years. Daddy and Basil and David and his tower. His home, in a twisted, prisonlike way. Everything else was new and strange.

He doesn't know that the moustached man tailing them has texted the news to his Daddy, and that his Daddy is swiftly setting up interception in London. All he cares is that he's free, he's going to see the lights, and to hell with the consequences. Even if Daddy locks the windows when he returns and condemns him to isolation for the rest of his life, this temporary escape would be worth it.

Sherlock happily descends the train and follows John out of the station, into the noise and bustle of London.

* * *

At first it terrifies him, London. The great city, with even greater buses and cars and a roaring underground train that John calls the Tube, daunts him yet welcomes him, too. He looks up at the buildings which really do live up to their names and seem to scrape at the bottom of the sky, and he looks around at the many different faces of people. So many colours, so little time.

Basil and David peer out from his pocket and survey their surroundings just as eagerly, before scampering out to sit on Sherlock's shoulders.

People look at him oddly like before, with his giant plait of golden hair, but Sherlock ignores them in favour of bumping into them as he runs down the street, taking in all the smells of London. He stops by a nearby kiosk and buys the latest paper, eyes eagerly poring over the words, taking in the news. John steers him with a gentle touch to the elbow as he walks along, nose buried in the news. They walk down a side street; Sherlock abruptly looks up, spots police tape up ahead, and rushes over to see.

"Sherlock, that's a crime scene –" John's words are lost on him as Sherlock ducks under the tape, runs up to the body, and solves the murder within seconds. The police stare at him – Sherlock hears one of them call him a freak – and usher him away from the scene, shaking their heads. Sherlock gets the impression that most people don't do that.

"How obvious was it to you?" John asks as they head in a different direction, towards an ice-cream parlour. Sherlock's never had ice-cream before; he wonders what it'll taste like and if he can differentiate between the ice and the cream.

He laughs. "Very. The victim bore an ill-fitting ring on his finger – it's too loose for him so it probably belongs to someone else. Either he took it or someone gave it to him – but see, if he stole it he wouldn't wear it on his finger; he'd keep it in his pocket. Since it's on his finger, balance of probability suggests that someone gave it to him. It's a wedding ring, a man's wedding ring, but who'd get shot for wearing a wedding ring? I overheard the police saying that he's got a clean record, no known terrorist affiliations or criminal activity – so I'm most likely correct and he was shot for the ring that someone else gave him. Must be an extramarital lover, killed by his lover's spouse. I'm sure the police, as incompetent as they seem to be, can work with that."

John looks at him for a couple of seconds before laughing himself. "That was amazing," he says, and Sherlock's ears turn pink.

"Really?"

"Yeah, that was bloody amazing. How'd you do that when you've been cooped up in a tower?"

"I observe a lot," Sherlock replies, trying to sound offhand but secretly preening at the fact that John was flattering him. John thought he was amazing, brilliant. It's the most wonderful thing Sherlock's ever heard.

"What else do you do in the tower, other than… experiment and observe?"

"Play the violin. I play it when I think, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end." Basil and David seem to be nodding their assent. "And I play with Basil and David."

"Your mice?"

"Yeah."

"I like David. He seems nicer than Basil." John smiles, reaching out for the shorter mouse. David sniffs at his finger before scuttling willingly into John's hand. John sets him on his shoulder.

"He eats all the cheese," Sherlock says, the happiness inside him swelling like a balloon. He'd thought that John would hate the mice – Jim certainly doesn't like them around – yet John's amusing himself now by talking to David, introducing himself as a medical student who wants to join the RAMC. And David nods at him like he knows – obviously he'd know; Sherlock knows he's a very clever mouse – and John laughs at that and promises to get him some cheese later on.

John is wonderful, John is odd, and John sets off little fluttery feelings in Sherlock's stomach. He's already dreading when he'll have to part ways with John, because the other man at this moment is the best thing to have ever happened to him. He knows he shouldn't be so possessive of a man he'll never see again after today – but even that thought makes him freeze up with foreboding. Maybe John's just the first new human he's seen in ages and he's somehow unconsciously imprinted on him, like a newly-hatched duckling to its mother. Maybe John is just interesting because he's so different from Daddy and the people Sherlock reads about. Whatever the case is, Sherlock finds himself dreading the goodbye as John steers them into an ice-cream parlour and orders two large chocolate-and-vanilla cones.

Sherlock decides that ice-cream is a slice of heaven, if heaven does exist. It is cold and creamy and he cannot differentiate between its components, and he makes a note to ask Daddy to always bring him some. Ice-cream trickles down his throat and melts in his mouth, and Basil and David seem to enjoy it as much as he.

"Tell me more about yourself," Sherlock suggests, as they slowly lick at the cones. It drips all over Sherlock's hands if he's not careful, and he quickly takes note to catch all the melting drops as he eats. John leans back in his chair and shrugs.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Everything. Your dreams, your family, your pets. I want to know everything." Sherlock's gaze narrows in on a dribble of chocolate ice-cream just at the corner of John's lips, and he wonders what it'll taste like if he licked – would it taste like chocolate, or John, or both?

"That's a lot to ask," laughs John. "I can say I've got an older sister named Harry, and a dog named Gladstone. Bulldog, rather bad-tempered around strangers."

"Really." Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "I hope he'll like Basil and David well enough. Okay, then… what about dreams?"

"Well, that'd depend on what types of dreams you're talking about –"

"You told David you wanted to join the RAMC. Isn't that dangerous?"

"Oh, yeah." John falls silent for a moment. "I want to be an army surgeon. I want to save lives on the battlefield."

"Wow." Sherlock's voice is quiet, contemplative. "That's…" he's never really thought of it before. But then again, with a worldview that until this morning had consisted only of the immediate surroundings of the tower, he's not too surprised that he hasn't. "I want to be a detective," he says abruptly.

"What, a private one?"

"Police don't go to them I think. I'll be a consulting detective."

John laughs. "There's no such thing."

"There is now."

And John's smile is very wide, very bright. "I hope you can. You've already proven that you can." And Sherlock wishes that he could, too, but a promise was a promise. He was going to return to the tower after he sees the lanterns, even if the very thought wrenches at his heart. He doesn't want to leave London or John. He definitely doesn't want to leave ice-cream or solving murders.

They finish their ice-cream and quickly leave the parlour, but as soon as they do so Sherlock catches sight of one of the men loitering at the station and he grabs John's arm and runs.

The man gives chase, drawing a gun from his pocket and taking aim; John demands to know what is going on and Sherlock doesn't know – he really doesn't – and Basil and David are cowering in his coat pocket. The gunman fires once, twice – but they're not aiming at Sherlock; they're aiming at John and Sherlock's heart turns to ice because John's avoiding the bullets and death by mere hairs.

He wishes he brought his riding crop.

But John knows the streets of London fairly well, and Sherlock quickly starts drawing himself a mental map as John takes him back to the main streets in order to avoid more gunshots.

* * *

They find themselves in Brixton in the early afternoon, and Sherlock quickly deduces that the woman lying in the house at Lauriston Gardens has been poisoned, but administered the poison herself. He also figures out that she has been in an unhappy marriage for ten years and that she's had a string of lovers who didn't know about her marital status. She also had a case with her, but it's apparently nowhere in the house so the killer must have taken her case, so it isn't a suicide but rather a homicide and the case has to be pink.

They find the case in a nearby skip and not knowing what to do with it they turn it in to the police back at the crime scene. The Detective Inspector, a man named Lestrade, thinks Sherlock is freakishly brilliant. His forensics analyst thinks he's just a freak. Sherlock thinks they're all idiots, but he doesn't voice it out loud.

John calls him brilliant anyway, as they walk along the main streets towards the Thames. Sherlock smiles and blushes and when his hand slips into John's neither of them pull away.

By the time the sun begins to set, dying the sky in a myriad of colours, John and Sherlock are on a boat in the middle of the Thames. As they float down the river, they can see several other boats pull up around them. London goes dark for a moment; the city seems to fall silent, holding its breath.

The first light appears above Pall Mall, near Downing Street. Sherlock doesn't know it, but it's his older brother Mycroft who has sent out the first light. It's a sky lantern, a tube of oiled rice paper affixed to a frame, lit by a single flame – and after the first light appears, everyone else releases their lanterns, too.

From the middle of the Thames, Sherlock can see the lanterns float into the air from the tops of buildings and bridges everywhere, hovering in the air like fireflies. Aglow with wonder at the sight before him, Sherlock doesn't notice John inching closer to him until the other man has taken his hand and is looking at him like he is the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth.

"I brought these," John says, and lifts out two lanterns from the bag by his feet. Sherlock gapes, removes his hand from John's, and watches John light them with wonder on his face. Their sky lanterns hover into the air as well, joining the ranks of the others that have been released from the boats. The night sky is aglow with reds, oranges, yellows.

"I've something for you, too," Sherlock admits, and brings out the satchel. At this moment, with the look of utter kindness in John's eyes, Sherlock feels he doesn't have to tread lightly and remember their deal. John deserves to have his satchel back; he's more than earned it. Next to him, Basil and David look out at the lights with wonder in their eyes.

"Oh," John says simply.

"I… well, I had my misgivings, but you've more than soundly disproven them. Goes to show that we mustn't jump to conclusions," Sherlock says, trying his best to smile. "You've kept your word; I'm not very scared anymore."

John reaches out, presses down the satchel. "It's fine," he says, and takes Sherlock's hand again. Sherlock's breath catches; in the glow of the lanterns he realises that John _is_ beautiful – not just because he's not too sore on the eyes, but because he is kind and honest and, as far as Sherlock can see, loyal. He calls Sherlock brilliant, not odd; he bought Sherlock shoes and ice-cream and paid for their transportation; he bought the lanterns and is now looking at Sherlock so wondrously that Sherlock loses all sense of the world around them and it's just John, just him and John and oh, _how he's seen the light_.

And at that very moment, a bullet silently rings through the air and hits John in the shoulder.

* * *

Blood, there's blood everywhere and Sherlock looks about him, panicking and fearful. John's passed out from the pain and shock; Sherlock quickly takes off his scarf and bandages John's shoulders. He reaches up, plucks out a strand of hair and then realises he's left the serum back at the tower with just about everything that could have been of use.

"Stupid, stupid!" he hisses at himself as he binds John's shoulder with his hair and hurriedly begins to chant. Basil squeaks a warning – there's a boat pulling up with Jim onboard but Sherlock doesn't see him in his panic to make sure that John would be all right.

"_Flower, gleam and glow! Let your powers shine_!"

The strand starts to glow, but faintly – Sherlock realises he doesn't have much time before he has to replace the hair.

"_Make the clock reverse; bring back what once was mi_ –"

Searing pain blossoms into his shoulder. Basil and David squeak in panic. Sherlock drops the hair, reaches for his own shoulder, and pulls out a tranquiliser dart.

Moments later he slumps on the boat and knows no more.

* * *

He wakes up in the tower again, in his own bed and staring up at the ceiling. Jim is sitting at his side, his face lined with sadness and barely contained anger.

"My pet, why must you insist on running away?" he croons. "Didn't I tell you that the world outside is dangerous?"

"What do you –" Sherlock tries to sit up, but doesn't quite make it into a sitting position before his head spins and he collapses back down. Jim sighs, reaches out and strokes his hair. Sherlock trembles in revulsion.

"That nice boy you found, the one who took you away from me… he's dead."

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. "How?" he whispers. "I was healing him. He –"

"You didn't quite manage to finish, did you? It didn't work. He's dead."

Sherlock's hair has been wound out; it pools out around him like some giant golden rug. Sherlock's eyes well with tears – John is dead, John won't smile at him again, John won't be there to tell him that he's brilliant –

John won't ever look at him with those eyes, those adoring eyes. Sherlock can almost feel an icy blade pierce his chest at that. He'd never find anyone as wonderful and honest and odd as John ever again.

And then he remembers. Something's off about Jim's explanation.

"How'd you know I didn't finish?" he breathes. "You weren't there, how – how did you know that John was hurt at all?"

"I have my sources. I worry about you, darling. I worry about you so much –"

"You're coddling me! Stop that!" The words lash out much harsher than he'd like, and Jim recoils for a second. "All throughout my life you've isolated me, hid me, told me that the world outside was far too dangerous – but you know what? You're wrong. How long have you been lying to me?"

"Lying? Daddy doesn't lie –"

"Yes you do." Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and brings out the paper he bought in London. Splashed across the front page is an announcement about the eighteenth lantern festival, about the lost Holmes brother. It comes with an age-progression photograph of the brother, with the same angular face and the same light-coloured eyes. The only difference between the Sherlock on the paper and the Sherlock holding the paper is the length of the hair. "Eighteen years ago, a baby named Sherlock Holmes was stolen from his family. For eighteen years London's released the lanterns in the hopes that he'll find his way home – and guess what? _I have._ I am the lost Holmes brother."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffs Jim.

"Ridiculous? You're the one who's ridiculous! You tell me all the time that the world out there is dangerous because people will use me for my hair, but it's blindingly obvious that you are doing the very same! How long have you known all of this?"

Jim's eyebrows shoot up, daring him to go on.

"How long have you known that I was the lost brother? It was all you, wasn't it? You're the one who kidnapped me – the evidence points –"

Pain blossoms sharply into his cheek; Jim draws back his hand, ready to slap him again. Head reeling, Sherlock reaches up and touches his stinging cheek, a tear involuntarily slipping out.

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me, young man," snarls Jim, all masks of care and comfort gone. Sherlock is repulsed immediately; he scrambles to get away, ignoring the ringing in his head and the dizziness. "Daddy's had enough now!"

And he grabs Sherlock's hair and yanks, just short of pulling out the hair and Sherlock's never experienced such agony, such revulsion – he feels like he's being violated in every way possible, and yet he still grits his teeth, refusing to give Jim the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

"Sherlock?" someone shouts from far away, and Sherlock's heart leaps into his throat. Jim loosens his hair in shock and Sherlock's eyes open again, realising that his heart is racing and that he's sweating, at the farthest edge of the bed away from Jim and unable to control the pain roaring through his head.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!" John cries from far away.

"John!" Sherlock yells before he can control himself, but then Jim is grabbing his hair again and Sherlock is writhing in pain and disgust; he wants to get away from Jim and all of the negative, reviling feelings that he's getting from his 'Daddy's' fingertips; he wants to curl up in a ball in the corner and die.

Jim drags him out of his room, into the main room with the large window, the window that Sherlock had stared out of for years and years. With one final yank that has Sherlock biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Jim wrenches Sherlock's arms behind him, twists them and ties them. He winds Sherlock's scarf around his mouth like a gag and grabs his long, golden hair –

And he tosses it out the window, down to John. Sherlock's heart freezes.

He feels a slight gnawing at his wrists. Basil and David nuzzle up against his back reassuringly; they quickly return their attentions to gnawing at the rope that binds Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock tries to keep still and silent as he feels John take his hair and begin to climb yet somehow, the pain isn't there. There's only contentment, reassurance, warmth. Sherlock likes it and almost whimpers in disappointment when John reaches the top.

And then the reality of that, of seeing John on the windowsill not noticing Jim in the shadows behind the mirror, hits him like a train and causes Sherlock's eyes to widen in horror. He begins to struggle, wriggling out of the gag and screaming for John.

"Sherlock!" John's voice is horrified, shocked. His shoulder is bandaged, heavily bandaged. "Sherlock, what have –?"

"No, John, get out! Get out!" Sherlock pleads, seeing Jim draw a knife and advance on John with murder in his eyes. "John, please, don't stay –"

He's cut off by Jim's laughter and a spurt of crimson; John clutches at his leg in an agonised cry. His knees buckle; he collides with the mirror on his way down and shatters the glass, its shards cut at the back of his head as he slumps to the ground besides it.

"Fool," sneers Jim as John groans in pain at his feet. "I'm surprised you even made it out of the hospital. But then again, people do get so _sentimental_ about their pets."

Sherlock bares his teeth, but Jim's hand reaches for his hair and Sherlock flinches, head bowed like a beaten dog. So much for not appearing like a pet – all rational thought has flown out of his mind the moment Jim first yanked at his hair, and Sherlock could only function instinctively, almost animal-like.

And as Jim raises the knife to stab John in the chest, Sherlock's instincts tell him to save John in whatever way possible.

"Stop!" he cries, lurching at Jim wildly with Basil and David clinging onto the ropes for dear life. "Don't kill him! I want… I want to say goodbye to him. Please."

Jim laughs, a high, cold, cruel laugh. "You won't keep your word, Sherlock. How will I ever trust you, when the last time I did you_ ran away_ with this man?" There's cruelty oozing out of his words, hatred as he kicks at John and steps over his struggling form.

"I will fight you. I will escape. I will keep on running away for the rest of my life," Sherlock snarls, as Basil and David finally cut through the last ropes binding Sherlock's wrists together. "But if you let me heal John, I will come quietly."

Moriarty's eyes narrow, and he looks at his watch. "Five minutes," he drawls, taking position near an open trapdoor in the floor, the hidden second exit. Sherlock can almost hear the cogs working in the other man's mind – he can almost see the red laser sights hovering on John's body after they leave, and a sniper – the moustached man, probably – pulling the trigger. Moriarty's not going to take his chances, but at least Sherlock can say goodbye.

"John," he whispers, as Moriarty turns his back and he shrugs off the ropes that bound his wrists. "You'll be all right. This is for the best."

"It's not," John mumbles, slumped against the mirror. Sherlock leans over, presses his hair against John's thigh. The knife had nicked an artery and John's rapidly losing blood and Sherlock's breath catches in his throat as he fumbles for the serum. John reaches out; tucks away Sherlock's fringe behind his ears; Sherlock's eyes close as he wills down the warm pleasure coursing through his veins at the other man's touch. "I can't… let you do this."

"I can't let you die," Sherlock replies simply. "Please, just let me do this; I've only got five minutes." He takes out the serum, prepares to pluck out another hair.

"Sherlock," whispers John, his hand still lingering in Sherlock's hair. His fingers caress it; Sherlock's eyes almost close in a fog of pleasure and it takes all his willpower to keep his head clear. "Wait." His eyes are kind and warm and loving and his face moves up closer and closer to Sherlock's – Sherlock's eyes close in anticipation –

And suddenly he hears a slicing sound and his head feels so much lighter than usual and John's holding a glass shard in one hand and Sherlock's long golden curls in the other.

Sherlock gasps. The shard falls out of John's hand.

Jim hears the gasp, turns around, and all the colour drains out of his face – and it does seem as if all the colour's draining out of him; his hair's turning white and receding, his eyes become bulbous and sunken, almost reptilian – he's becoming older and older as Sherlock's hair quickly denatures from gold into inky black and the black is rapidly flowing down the strands of hair like poison through the body. The fountain of youth has ceased to flow, and Sherlock clutches at his now short-and-dark hair in surprise and horror.

"What have you done?" Jim screams, voice hoarse and creaky. "_What have you done_?" He rushes to the shattered mirror and looks in; the shards shatter his wrinkled grey face into a million images – he screams a bestial howl, clutching at his face – he lunges at John, but Sherlock intercepts him and they stumble back, tripping against the remnants of Sherlock's hair, and out the window of the tower.

Jim attempts to cling onto Sherlock, but his old bones are shrivelling and breaking and pretty soon he is nothing but a skeleton, clutching in vain at Sherlock's feet as Sherlock clings for dear life at the windowsill. With one final howl, Jim Moriarty lets go and falls down, down, down to the cold unyielding ground as the first beams of sunlight appear over the tops of the tress. Sherlock scrabbles for purchase against the stone tower; he struggles to cling to the sill but his fingers are clammy and starting to slip; he wonders how long it'll take for him to hit the ground if he just lets go –

And then there's another hand reaching out, grabbing him and pulling him into the room. John is pulling him to safety with the last ounce of strength left in his body, and Sherlock collapses inside the tower, panting like he'd just ran a mile. His heart pounds loudly against his chest.

John is so weak; he'd immediately collapsed onto the floor after that, eyes closed. The blood's flowing out of his thigh again; Sherlock scrambles to his side and seizes John's hand, tangling the other man's fingers in his hair. His heart sinks when he feels nothing.

"No. No, John, you need to stay! No, please – flower, gleam and glow, let your powers shine –"

"It's no use," John whispers, voice reedy.

"No! Don't be like that! Make the clock reverse, bring back –"

"Sherlock, listen." John's breathing becomes more and more laboured; his fingers slip and brush against Sherlock's cheek. "You… you were my new dream…"

That revelation is bittersweet; Sherlock feels the sting of tears moreso than the expanding bubble of joy – that all along, John had done all of this because he truly cared about Sherlock – and clutches the other man in his arms, tears welling in his eyes.

"And you were mine," he whispers as John's eyes close. "And you… were… mine…"

He brings his face closer to John's, almost kissing but not quite – his hands reach out, caressing John's cheek. It's softer than he'd imagined.

"_Heal what has been hurt_," Sherlock whispers, even though he knows it won't be any use. "_Change the Fates' designs… save what has been lost; bring back what once was mine_…"

The tears threaten to fall now; they cling to his lashes as he presses his forehead against John's. "What once was mine…" Sherlock mumbles, and close his eyes as well. The tears fall onto John's face; Sherlock holds the other close, sobbing as he felt the warmth leaving his body.

But suddenly, a small glow appears in John's cheek at the where Sherlock's tears had fallen. Sherlock pulls away, eyes widening. Warmth spreads out from the area, moving down to John's shoulder and leg. Sherlock's mouth falls open as the glow becomes brighter and brighter, taking on the shape of a flower, the flower that had gleamed and glowed in a lab at Baskerville. The flower with the healing alleles and a single firefly gene.

When the glow fades, Sherlock looks down at the leg wound but finds nothing there. He unravels the bandages around John's shoulder and finds nothing there as well. "John?" he whispers, brushing away some of John's fringe from his face.

John's eyes flutter open. "Sherlock?" he whispers.

Sherlock's usually not the type of person to leap onto someone with a kiss. But in this case, after seeing John miraculously come back to life, Sherlock feels an overwhelming rush of affection and joy and the only thing he can do is wrap his arms around the other man and kiss him senseless.

"You know," John murmurs when they break apart; he's got a distinctive winded look to his face, "most people don't consider this normal. Fancying blokes and all."

"Most people don't carry mice in their pockets, either," Sherlock points out.

"Point conceded," John replies, and kisses him again, slowly, tenderly. Sherlock could only hold him close and wonder how he's lived eighteen years without feeling this feeling, the need to be so close to another person. But he doesn't mind it at all, because it's John and John's enough.

* * *

The first time Sherlock meets his mother, he sees that he has her hair and her eyes and her smile. She holds him tight and sobs into his shoulder and tells him that it's been far too long.

The first time Sherlock meets his brother Mycroft, he thinks that the other man is a pompous git. But then Mycroft tells him that Detective Inspector Lestrade told him about the eccentric and clever boy with the long golden hair and that was how he'd managed to get John to Sherlock so quickly, and Sherlock thinks that he's not _too bad_ but still a pompous git.

Mycroft invites him to stay at Pall Mall; his mother insists that he go live at Holmes Manor. Sherlock insists on finding his own flat, and when he smiles at John and John smiles back, he's sure they get the point.

So Sherlock and John find a lovely flat on Baker Street and immediately settle in; John's training to become a surgeon, not necessarily for the RAMC but it's good enough, and Sherlock spends his days consulting with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Some of the police still think he's a freak, but Sherlock knows they need him and it pleases him to know they need him.

But what really pleases him, though, is that he has John by his side – and Basil and David, too; they drive the landlady up the walls but she has a soft spot for them as well – and he's free to live happily ever after.

So he does that, and he doesn't care about the expiration date at all. Happiness doesn't have one.


End file.
